


out in the open

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: John Being A Good Friend, could be read as pre-slash, just some Noticing, post root kidnapping harold but pre shaw, set vaguely post s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Finch avoids going out and Reese learns why
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	out in the open

The first time it happens, John is surprised.

They've just wrapped up a pretty complicated number, one involving a grand total of four numbers and a multi-state chase. Harold's been in his ear the entire time, of course, his guardian angel—well, bird, as it were, and he appreciates it.

It  _ does _ leave him with some nasty bruising, though—the bullets were stopped by the bulletproof vest, but the pain's still enough to be annoying, and Harold insists on patching him up them and the scrapes from the fall he took.

Harold swabs the cotton-ball across his shoulder, and John hisses. "Woah, easy there, Finch," he says, doing his very best not to flinch as some of the antiseptic gets into one of the deeper grazes.

"Perhaps you should consider not jumping out of second-story  _ windows _ ," Harold bites, and purses his lips into a thin, sharp line.

Much of him is sharp, John's come to notice—his clothes, his words, his face, the corners of his glasses. What's  _ not _ sharp, though, is his ministrations; though the action stang a moment before, it was as gentle as he could make it.

"We should go out," John says; mostly in an attempt to curb his thoughts from going much further down  _ that _ route—there be dragons and all manner of wild beasts. "Dinner, maybe? To celebrate. There's that nice place, downtown—"

The other's hand stills. "Oh, no, that's quite alright.”

John frowns. "You  _ liked _ that place," he says, "remember, we went there a while back—what was that, after the first time 'round with Elias. You got the chicken alfredo, and sent your compliments to the chef."

"...I got food-poisoning the next day," Harold says, and he's not looking at John anymore; has pulled his hand away. "It—turned me off of it, you understand."

"You  _ did? _ " he asks.

"I  _ did _ ," Harold says; and his voice raises at the end; wavers a bit. A lie—his tell, John's memorised it by now; out of habit, mostly, from back when knowing a lie from a truth was the difference between life and death. Or—no; not a  _ lie _ , exactly; an omission. This is true—but it's not the whole story.

Harold's expression is screaming, silent,  _ don't ask _ , though, so John doesn't push it; just lets his own expression fall back into nonchalance; hums.

Harold rises; puts the first aid-kit away, and whistles for Bear, who perks his ears up at it and comes bounding over, nails clicking on the floor, and drops the tennis-ball at Harold's feet.

"Well?" John says, "you gonna throw it, or what?"

Harold rolls his eyes; a token protest, John knows—he loves Bear as much as John does, and after a second, he picks the ball up and tosses it.

The second time, John notices.

It's not after a number this time—they haven't had one all day, surprisingly; the coming of winter seems to have brought a temporary halt to them.

They've been cooped up in the Library all day, though, because of the blizzard that's raging outside, and John's begun to get a bit antsy—and he can tell that Harold has, too; he's been doing that stupid thing where he reads a paragraph, tugs at his lip with his teeth, and then flicks his eyes up to the window and back down to the book again, and repeats the action every few minutes.

The blizzard's finally died down, though, just leaving about half a foot of snow of the ground, and Bear's been looking between the two of them hopefully, and so John says, "Hey, Finch, let's go walk the dog."

"Oh, I can't," Harold says, without looking up from his book. "The sidewalks will be too slippery to walk on, with my leg."

"Okay, then let's take him around the courtyard," John suggests. "The awnings cover the sidewalks, so there won't be any snow to deal with."

There's a silence. "I'd really rather not," Harold says. "Er—I'm tired. You take Bear out—I'll make some, ah, some drinks for when you get back. Hot cocoa okay for you?"

John opens his mouth; stops. "Sure," he agrees, and rises; grabs Bear's lead and whistles; three sharp notes. Bear comes trotting up to him, and John snaps the lead onto his harness. "I'll be back in ten?"

Harold nods. "Cocoa'll be ready by then," he says.

The third time—

"Mister Reese," Harold says, voice strained, "you're not going to be able to get this one."

"What?" John wheezes, clutching his side; praying it's a bruised rib rather than a cracked or broken one. "No, I can get it just fine, just tell me the place—"

" _ John _ ," Harold says. "It's too far. I'll get it."

John wipes at his lip; hissing at the sting, and comes away with blood. "Harold," he says, "c'mon, just give me the  _ place _ —"

"No," Harold says; and John can hear his chair skitter on the floor. "You stick with the number—I'll go to Miss Edna and make sure she's alright."

"Fine," John says, after a beat; and tries not to sound too grudging about it. "But call me if anything goes wrong, okay, Finch?"

"Yes, don't worry," Harold says, and then he's not talking to John anymore.

Half an hour later, John's managed to grab their mark, and he gives Carter a call and hands him off to her. With that settled, he gives Harold a call. He accidentally twists his shoulder a bit, and hisses at that, and then swallows it back as the other picks up. "Finch," he greets.

"John," Harold says; with a bit of a bite to his tone. "Good to—good to hear your voice."

By itself, it's nothing to worry about—but the tone, the words, Harold's earlier tension all added together, they set him on edge. "Harold?" he asks, "are you okay? Did something happen? Did—?"

" _ Fine _ ," Harold says; and then: "God. No."

His voice shakes a bit, and John can see him in his mind's eye; curled slightly in on himself—a protective stance. "Harold," he says, again, more softly, "what's wrong?"

"Can you come get me?" It's a deflection—John knows it is, but he also knows that it's only because Harold doesn't feel safe enough to say anything like this, in public.

"Alright," John says, "text me your address, I'll come get you."

Harold does; John's there in ten. He might break the speed limit. Just a bit.

Harold doesn't talk on the way back to the Library; stares blankly out of the passenger window. His breath's going a bit faster than it should be, but not hyperventilating, thankfully. John unlocks the door and herds him inside.

"Want to talk about it?" John asks, quietly, once they're inside, sitting down; Harold in the armchair, and John on the stool.

"Not  _ particularly, _ " Harold says.

A beat; then two. "You okay?" John asks, instead.

"I—fine," Harold replies. "I am, I am  _ now _ , don't worry. I just—" he gives a slight, shuddering exhale; fingers clenching in his lap, and his lips purse. "Haven't been out in a while."

Oh.

That. That explains  _ some _ things, actually, now that John thinks about it. "After...?" he trails off, leaving the question in the air, but they both know what it means, and it's confirmed a moment later, when Harold nods.

"Well," he says, a bit wrong-footed. "Uh. I take it that means you want to order in, then?"

The tension drains from Harold's face, and he gives John a relieved look. "That'd be appreciated, thank you," he says.

"'Course, Finch," John says, with a half-crooked smile.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
